Waving a hand towards some point on the ceiling, Maggie moved behind her desk. It was littered with so many manuscripts Genevieve always wondered how Maggie could work in such a shambles. Genevieve took a seat, depositing her tote bag on the floor.

Maggie reached for the glasses she was too vain to wear in public. “We’ve got a cracker here, Gena.” She slapped a satisfied hand on top of the thick manuscript. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. Your readers will too. A stirring tale—great romance, extremely touching in places, all those amazing insights, and your usual clever twists.”

Genevieve’s heart lifted. “I’m glad you like it, Maggie. I owe a lot to you.”

“Maybe a bit,” Maggie conceded. “But you’re a born writer.”

“I’ve always had a compulsion to write going back to my childhood.”

“Of course, dear—a prerequisite.” Maggie looked up tosmile. Maggie smiled often—unlike Rhoda. “So what next?” Maggie asked.

Genevieve shifted back in her chair “I think I’ll take a break, Maggie. A complete change of scene—maybe six months or so. I’ve been going at it pretty intensively, as you know. Losing my grandmother hit me very hard, and then there was the debacle of my engagement.”

“You’re well rid of him,” Maggie huffed. Maggie never kept her strong opinions to herself. “So he was a good-looking charmer? He turned out to be a traitor. As for that treacherous creature Carrie-Anne!” Maggie threw up her hands in disgust.

“I’m over it, Maggie,” Genevieve said. Well, not completely. A double betrayal was hard to take.

“As I’ve told you before, dear, you’ve had a lucky break. Think—it could have happened after you were married. He could have betrayed you zillions of times over a lifetime. Honest to God, it brings tears to my eyes. Success puts men off, you know, love,” she confided for the umpteenth time.“I should know.”

Maggie had been twice married, twice divorced. Now she was eyeing Genevieve speculatively across the table, her pearly white teeth—the result of expensive cosmetic work—sinking into her bottom lip.

“You wouldn’t consider a break in our fabled Outback, would you?” She asked on the off-chance, with no real expectation of Gena’s saying yes. “You’d be staying on a famous cattle station in the Channel Country. It’s owned and run by one of our most prominent landed families. I can line someone else up, but I thought you could handle it. Have a well-earned holiday as well—recharge the batteries, maybe get inspiration?

Out of nowhere Genevieve experienced one of those moments of searing awareness that came like a thunderclap. She didn’t understand what prompted these moments, but she had come to think of them as a window opening up in her mind.

“What are we talking about here, Maggie? A working holiday?” Her voice sounded calm, but there was a betraying tension in her face.

Maggie’s alert brown eyes sharpened. She hadn’t missed a bit of it, though she pretended not to notice. “That’s it exactly.” Maggie could sense Gena’s inner disturbance, even if there didn’t appear to be any apparent reason for it. “If you’re interested, of course, Gena. Should be a piece of cake for you, with the bonus of an Outback holiday.”

“More information?” Genevieve requested, knowing in advance what Maggie was going to say. It had been long recognised by the family that Michelle had had an extra sense. She had inherited it. No denying genetics.

“Of course, dear.” Maggie lowered her eyes, giving Gena a little time to gather herself from that all too brief moment of—what, exactly? “A senior member of the family—Trevelyan is the name, Miss Hester Trevelyan, who’s had the sense to avoid marriage—needs a ghost writer to help with the family history. That would be from colonial days. And she might want to bring in their illustrious Cornish family background. Richard Trevelyan emigrated to the free colony of South Australia in the mid-1800s. We know there was a big influx of Cornish migrants from the mid-nineteenth century right up until after World War II. It was actively encouraged by the government, I believe.”

Genevieve made a real effort to calm her agitation. “After the demise of their tin and copper mines. Cornish mines were known to traders as far back as ancient Greece. It was thought that with their wealth of experience and expertise Australia was the place to come for mining families. The New World—a new beginning. We still refer to Yorke Peninsula in South Australia as ‘Little Cornwall’.”

“So we do!” Maggie exclaimed. “These Trevelyans have their own family crest.”

“How very jolly!”

“The Cornish side of the family did own tin and copper mines, as far as I know, but Richard Trevelyan was the last in a line of sons. He wanted to make his own way, so he decided to found his own dynasty in Australia. Apparently he was more interested in sheep and cattle than in getting involved in the mines—though I believe the Trevelyans are heavily involved in the mining industry. Also real estate, hotels, air, rail, and road freight. You name it. A lot of diversification going on there. The current cattle baron is Miss Trevelyan’s great-nephew, Bret Trevelyan. Bret short for Bretton, I guess. Bit of information on him: he’s just thirty, still unmarried, one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. He was once engaged to the daughter of another well-heeled landed family, the Rawleighs. Obviously the grand romance and the unification of two dynasties fell through. His parents divorced when he was in his early teens. An acrimonious split, I believe. The mother ran off with a family friend—tsk, tsk. The father never remarried. He was killed in a bizarre shooting accident on the station. Apparently a guest’s rifle discharged when he was climbing over a fence. I don’t know the full story. There’s a younger brother, Derryl, and a sister, Romayne. Romayne married the Ormond shipping heir two years back—remember? It was a big society wedding. Got a lot of coverage.”